Quiet
by Jenico
Summary: Santana lives upstairs. And like everyone else that's ever heard her heels clicking on the concrete at two in the morning, you fall in love with her.  future!brittana with other weird themes that I don't even know how to explain...


Based on_ Pavlov's Daughter - _Regina Spektor, which I do not own at all. I also don't own Glee.

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><p>The banging on the stairs as people tip-toe up and down is something that you really have to get used to. Whether it be noon, 8pm, midnight or 3 in the morning, someone is awake, walking in or out of the apartment complex, and the thin layer of cement that can hardly constitute for a floor produces a rather loud sound in heels or tennis shoes. But you do get used to it eventually; this is New York City after all.<p>

When you moved here from That Place You Left And Are Never Going Back To, you half-expected your one-bedroom apartment to be infested with rats and spiders, but it was actually pretty clean. So you put up with the noise.

The first time you hear her is when she's taking out her trash. It's 2am, four hours before the loud, grumbling white trucks will come to collect the bags piling up in the dumpster on the side of your building, inexplicably telling everyone: "If you thought you were going to get any sleep tonight, think again."

You're in bed by this hour as per usual on Sunday nights. And you normally wouldn't even fidget if you heard the clacking sound of stilettos making their way past your room at this hour, but in your defense, it wasn't the clacking that makes you shoot your eyes open. It's the humming.

You don't move, but you stare up at your cinderblock ceiling, hoping that the darkness will improve your sense of hearing and that your ears aren't deceiving you. Because that _sound_ - that almost growling purr that must be coming from an angel - is just perfect. You don't recognize the tune, but it doesn't matter. The song is stuck in your head for the rest of the tossing and turning night.

After you hear the building door click shut, you close your eyes again, and almost fall asleep. But after what feels like seconds, you hear her again.

"_Shit_."

Even if the walls weren't paper thin, the cracks in the doors not blocking any sound, you would've heard her whispering in Spanish. It's like she's lying right next to you, her lips pressed to your ear. And you could swear you feel her breath on your neck.

Her flat palm bangs on the door, and you realize she must've left her key inside. You want to get out of your bed, put on a robe, and let her in. But you can't bring yourself to do it. She bangs again.

A minute later you hear some low, grumbling from a man and the clicking sound of the door opening.

"Sorry, I was just taking out the trash." Her voice is low, but soft, and if you weren't so sure that she isn't _like that_ (How are you sure she isn't? You don't even know her, but you're somehow sure of it), you'd think she was flirting.

The man's voice mumbles a _no problem_ before you hear them go their separate ways. You listen to her footsteps as she makes her way up the concrete steps to the second floor where she stops and goes into the room directly above yours. You want to close your eyes and imagine what she looks like, but the shadows on your wall are replaying the scene over and over again and you don't remember falling asleep.

* * *

><p>You don't mean to, but you start listening for her. When you're home and awake, you turn off your thoughts and just wait until you hear the clacking of her heels. You learn which heels are hers and how quickly she walks at different times of the day, and after a week, you're pretty sure you have her schedule memorized. Awake at 8am for a couple minutes until a blonde girl (who you catch a glimpse of getting into her car twice in the week) leaves her room, and then she sleeps until noon.<p>

You're gone from one until about 9PM everyday, but you wish you could be at home listening. She's there when you get home, singing as beautifully as you could ever imagine, leaving promptly at 10, and not coming home until the early hours of the morning. But after seven days, you still don't see her.

You want to know what she looks like so badly, but deep down, you're glad you don't. If you only used to use your imagination to fall in love with her (which you're sure you have), you can't imagine how obsessed you would be after seeing her.

It's a Saturday night, and you're home alone. You're new to the city and you tell yourself it's the main reason that you're not out with friends you don't have, but you know why you're sitting on your bed, reading a novel you've been working on for months and waiting for sounds of life in the room above you.

She gets home at just past two in the morning, and the blonde is with her. Part of you almost gets out of bed and opens your door, pretending to need to go to the laundromat in the middle of the night. Just to see her. Just to know she's real.

But you don't. And it's too late anyway because they're upstairs, whispering and giggling and so obviously tipsy. Their door shuts and you have to strain your ears to hear what is going on. Footsteps don't determine much, and other than that, they're being particularly quiet.

It isn't until you hear the bed squeak and the floorboards move when you realize what you're listening to. You know you should stop. Put on your headphones, turn on the TV or just go to sleep. But there's something about their love-making, loud enough that the entire building can hear, but probably isn't listening to, that forces you not to move. Every audible movement echoes in your mind as you picture the whole scene as if it were being played out in front of you, maybe even involving you. But you don't go any further. You hear her climax and less than a minute later, the blonde follows suit. You wish you could explain to yourself how you know the difference, but you can't. You just know.

When you wake up the next morning, and you realize you'd fallen asleep to the sounds of the two girls in the room above you fucking, you take a colder than average shower. Not to calm yourself down, but to remind yourself that you're alive. And that you can't, under any circumstances, do that again.

* * *

><p>Tuesday, you get the day off work, but you go out anyway, promising to yourself that you're not going to mope around all day, feeling sorry for yourself. You came to New York to get away from that feeling, but so far, it's only intensified it.<p>

Regardless of this decision, you're home by 4pm, with nothing to do but listen to the sounds of your building. Listen to _her_.

She's home alone, singing out worlds to a folky song whose lyrics have simultaneously no real meaning and all the meaning in the world behind them. Her voice melts you, so you close your eyes and just listen. The tender vibrato and ear-piercing falsetto combine to make a sound so lovely and musical that you know you could listen to forever and never grow tired.

You're so caught up in listening to her that when her phone rings, you think it's your own. You tell yourself not to eavesdrop on her conversation, but you do. It's hardly your fault anyway - the cinderblocks separating you do nothing to drown out the noise.

"Well when are you going to be home then?" she asks. It must be the blonde.

"No. It's fine. I just-" she sighs. "You know how I feel about you hanging out with him... I know; I know. But you used to be more... No, no. If you have to, then I mean... Love you too... Bye Britt."

There's no more singing. You can almost feel her growing solemn after she hangs up her phone and tries to go on knowing that her girlfriend won't be home any time soon.

After figuring she must've gone to sleep, you turn on your TV (at a very low volume of course, in case she wakes up and you miss hearing her footsteps). But she's not asleep at all. She's nearly the opposite of asleep, because even though her girlfriend isn't home, she's in the middle of deep, intense love-making. By her third self-produced orgasm, the volume on your TV is on mute and you're staring out the window, but at nothing at all. You realize you want her very, very much. You almost need her.

* * *

><p>When you can tell which toilet flushing is hers (because really, all in the building are equally as loud and annoying), you know you've taken it too far. You've taken your complete and utter obsession with the sounds this girl you've never seen makes to a level that you're scared to admit to yourself. You decide you'll introduce yourself as soon as the opportunity presents itself.<p>

Three weeks from the day you first heard her at approximately 11 in the morning, there's a knock at your door. You're not expecting anyone, but you answer without hesitation.

It's her. It has to be. You hadn't been listening for her for a couple hours now, but that's almost irrelevant. It simply couldn't be anyone else.

She has straight, deep brown hair that falls just past her rounded breasts. Her skin is caramel, making her almost black eyes pop against their backdrop. Her lips, which are curled up ever so slightly on the side are pink and luscious. One hand is rested on her perfectly tiny waist, the other massaging the back of her neck. In jeans, a form-fitting sweater and heeled boots, she's easily the most gorgeous person you've ever seen.

When she speaks, you have to tell your knees not to give out.

"I'm sorry for bothering you," she clasps her hands in front of her. "You haven't seen a jacket laying out around here, have you?" She motions to the ground around and behind her, but never takes her eyes off you.

You have to be the one to break the stare, you tell yourself. After what seems like an eternity of just _gazing _at her beauty and wondering how she could possibly be a million times better than any girl you'd imagined in your mind, you shake your head.

"Sorry," you say, your voice a little too quiet. "What's it, uh, what's it look like?"

"It's black," she continues, "with cuffed sleeves. Um, Marc Jacobs if that helps."

You hate disappointing her, but you must shake your head again. "If I see it around, I'll, uh, let you know?"

She nods, taking a deep breath and trying not to give up on finding her jacket.

You want her to notice you staring. You want her to see how plainly and awfully in love with her you are. You practically plead for her to say something else.

"I'm sorry," she shakes her head, adding a little laugh that could've possibly killed you. "I've been living here a month, and I still haven't met hardly anyone here. I'm Santana."

The name floods your brain as it tries to reorganize every memory you have of her, filling it in whenever you heard her, thought of her, dreamt of her.

_Santana_.

The word is music in itself, and you remember lying on your childhood room floor, listening to guitar riffs and feeling the music like you'd never felt any emotion in your life.

She has her hand out and you shake it, introducing yourself as well.

"I live on the second floor," Santana explains (you mentally freak out that you have something to call her now). "Probably directly above you, actually."

You know. Of course, you know. You know it better than anything you've ever known. And you almost tell her, but catch yourself just in time.

"Really? I live... here."

She smiles, and this can't be Earth - there's no gravity.

"Sorry if we're loud," Santana apologizes again. "I'm a singer so I'm out all night, and my girlfriend's in vet school so she's out all day. We must be pretty loud..."

You hold back the cough that's holding back your tears, making you feel uncomfortable and blissful all at the same time. "It's fine," you say.

"Well, I should probably get back to The Great Jacket Hunt," Santana begins. "You were like the last place I was gonna look, so I've got a bit of explaining to do to Brittany. It was nice meeting you though."

"Yeah," you smile, no doubt looking like a love-struck puppy. "I'll see you around."

Even though you can see her as she walks up the stairs, you still listen for her footsteps. The sound is even better.

* * *

><p>The following night, you're jolted awake by a crash that could've only come from your ceiling. Banging ensures from feet stomping across the floor in the room directly above you, and you look up in worry.<p>

Santana's lovely singing voice is now deep and terrifying as she yells at what has to be the top of her lungs. "I can't believe you! I trusted you, Brittany! How could you do this to me?"

"I'm sorry, okay?" Brittany's voice is loud and infuriated as well. "It happened once! Over a year ago!"

"I _knew_ I shouldn't have let you spend the night at his house! He turned you into such a _slut_."

"Oh I was a slut before I slept with him!"

There is a pause in their voices, and you hope and pray that it's over. But the stomping continues.

"The girl I fell in love with never would've lied to me for a _year,_" Santana says, quieter, but still as harshly. "That's not like you at all. You're not being yourself."

"You don't know anything about me!"

A crash comes from above and you figure something was dropped and broken.

"What does _that_ mean?" Santana's voice cracks. "I know better than anyone in this world! I know you better than I know myself, Britt!"

She's crying and your heart hurts greatly.

"Santana, I'm sorry," Brittany's voice turns soft and almost loving, but not quite. "I didn't mean-"

"How could you say that?" Santana keeps up on her end of the shouting match. "You know me and I know you. That's how we work! That's how we're always worked! Since preschool, Brittany! Since before we can remember!"

"Santana-"

"Don't fucking touch me! Don't even come near me! I _hate_ what you've done to us. You ruined us!"

You can't take it much longer. It's tearing you apart listening to this.

"Don't talk to _me_ about ruining things!" Brittany responds, her voice raising once again. "You ruin _every_ job I get because you can't stay in one place long enough for people to realize that you're gay! I'm not stupid; I know you're ashamed of me!"

Without much thought, you pick up your phone and dial 9-1-1. You might go crazy if you have to listen to such hateful words being thrown back and forth involving the person that you've fallen in love with. You don't want to ruin their relationship. You want it to get better. You want everything to be back to normal. You want to pretend tonight never happened. You want so many things that when the police pick up, you realize you don't even know what to say. You make a noise complaint, hoping that someone in the complex would've already made one of the same. You hang up and wait for them to arrive.

Meanwhile, the stomping above you has moved into a different room, making it harder for you to hear what's going on. You don't want to be involved, so you get into your bed, turn on the television and wait.

The red and blue lights are outside your building after what seems like forever. You peek out your blinds and throw on your robe when you see the officer making his way to the front door. After a very brief time of waiting as the officer goes upstairs, opens her door and comes back down, you open yours.

"Hello, sir?" you say, nervous that just by talking to him, you're getting involved. "What seems to be the problem?"

"Nothing, ma'am," he responds with a strong Brooklyn accent. "We got a noise call, but there's no one in the room, so somebody must've been hearing something. Happens all the time."

"Excuse me?" It doesn't make sense to you.

"Probably just a loud TV or something," he clarifies.

"No," you shake your head. "You said there was no one in the room?"

"Yep," he nods. "Totally vacant. I mean, furniture's all there and food and stuff. But there's no clothes in the drawers or sheets on the bed. Usually means they just up and left without warning... Hm. That's a good point actually. They were probably just tired of the place and left. Either way - nothing to worry about."

You want to say something. You want to demand to be taken to their room and shown that it was empty. You would've heard them if they left. You are so good at hearing her footsteps, you should've been able to tell if she was outside your door, which they must've passed in order to leave.

"But-"

"Good night, ma'am."

You close your door, climb in bed and listen for the clicking of footsteps overhead. But despite the New York City sounds that you'd gotten used to, it's totally quiet. Completely and utterly quiet. And your heart breaks. And you never hear her again.

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><p><em>AN: So this is like the weirdest story I've written, but it's based off a song by Regina Spektor so I think that defends it pretty well. I was planning on writing CrissColfer for the first time, but I just couldn't! I don't know why! aahhh! And then news broke that Brittana is totally on in 3x04 and this came out of it. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it despite probably wondering what's wrong with me. The song is great it's based off of will explain everything if you want to check that out :)_


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